


Same As Always

by JulyStorms



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6100558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulyStorms/pseuds/JulyStorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning the Survey Corps returned from Shiganshina, Hitch was waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same As Always

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Daniela's lovely hilow artwork [here](http://lolakasa.tumblr.com/post/139876316355/in-which-marcowe-is-welcomed-back-safe-from). Please like/reblog her art to show your support. :)

The morning the Survey Corps returned from Shiganshina, Hitch was waiting, her stomach in knots. Garrison soldiers kept the crowd back, reminding the civilians in loud voices to keep the road clear. They listened until the loud groaning of the gate opening excited them; as one they surged into the street to catch a glimpse of the approaching military regiment, eyes gleaming with excitement. Everyone hoped for a favorable report for humanity.

Hitch’s heart lodged itself in her throat when she saw the bright green of their cloaks fade to black under the arch of the wall, eyes scanning the scattered ranks for Marlowe even though she knew he wouldn’t be at the front of the formation.

Agitated Garrison soldiers herded everyone back to the sides of the road again, and Hitch managed through sheer force of will to stay at the front. She wasn’t about to lose her spot, not after all the hassle she’d gone through to be there, not after she’d already been waiting for hours. It was worth it, she reminded herself, arms folded tightly, toes numb in her boots. She had to be here—had to know.

The faces of the soldiers that passed were drawn. Even on horseback they looked small and resigned, eyes focused on the cobblestones instead of straight ahead.

She might have let herself think about what that meant, but the sagging cart that passed, piled high with what could only be their losses, made her shudder. In light of its existence, even victory could only be bittersweet at best. Was this the price paid for answers?

She watched the horses that pulled it for a moment, watched their withers gleam as they took each forward step, watched the way their heads bowed low as they came over the little hill into town. She knew she’d never forget any of it: the slow plodding, the straining team under the harness, the driver’s hunched shoulders.

She didn’t look in the back, afraid she’d see the very thing she was most afraid of—soft, dark hair or the edge of his jaw or his hands: she would know those anywhere, after all, even dangling out of a stained linen wrap.

Hitch looked at the soldiers instead, at their weary lined foreheads and their haphazardly-bandaged limbs and the way they seemed to be disengaging from their own glorious return. The crowd cheered to see them back, yet every soldier remained subdued. She recognized some faces; Eren rode by on the far side, flanked by a couple of his friends. Jean rode largely alone, behind them, and when he passed she saw the weight to his shoulders and the tightness to his mouth and she swallowed hard, uncertain.

When minutes passed and she caught no glimpse of Marlowe, her heart tried to crawl up into her throat—tried to strangle her with doubts and fears that had been plaguing her for weeks already: _didn’t you say it yourself—that he was weak?_

She hadn’t really meant it. Marlowe had never been the weak one, anyway, between the two of them.

She ought to have told him so, but she hadn’t. There was no going back, now.

Maybe she should have looked at the back of the wagon. Why was she such a coward? If he was dead, then he was dead. Refusing to look wouldn’t change anything. In fact, refusing to look meant she’d never see him again. The thought made her feel sick. She hated it: that he had gone and she had let him—had practically chased him away with words that she had hoped would convince him to stay.

But then she saw a flash of someone who looked like him—just a glimpse—and she waited with her heart clogging up her throat until he was close enough to know for certain.

But it was his hair and those were his shoulders, and that was the proper slant of his jaw.

She nearly cried in relief, eyes misting over pathetically. Had he been close enough, she might have thoughtlessly called out his name.

But he was on the other side of the road, fingers rubbing against his reins distractedly. Her heart sank into her chest to see his gaze pointed at the cobblestones like all the others. She hugged herself tighter. When had he stopped being able to look ahead?

* * *

 

The last person Marlowe thought he would see upon returning to civilization was Hitch, but as always she was there when he least expected her to be. One of the other recruits pried his reins out of his stiff hands and shoved him toward her as if they knew by her awkward hovering next to the water trough that she meant something to him.

They didn’t know anything. How could they know what he himself did not?

But Marlowe let it happen, curiosity fueling the last few steps he took on his own to stand in front of her.

He thought about bringing up the fact that she had been right about him that day they’d fought: he was weak. He also considered telling her to go away because he didn’t want her to see him like this: worn down and exhausted after just one expedition.

Yet despite all of his conflicted feelings, what he wanted most to do was wrap his arms around her and hold her close. She would smell just as she had the last time he’d been close enough to notice, and in his new life, where it seemed that his feet could never quite find solid footing, that simple kind of familiarity was what he craved.

But he only stared at her awkwardly, afraid and confused and so very, very glad to see that her military jacket lacked the winged emblem his did.

She kept a respectful distance between them. It might as well have been a wall. A minute passed while he wondered what to say, and then she leaned in.

Uncertain, he raised his hand, the urge to hold her returning.

But she bit her lip hard and said, “I’m sorry,” and then, “I just—” and her fingers touched the side of his face, brushing over his temple and through his hair, almost as if she wished to tuck it back. She was frowning when her thumb touched the bandage wound around his head over his ear, and he wondered if that meant anything—if she was reminding him of the fact that he hadn’t listened to her.

He watched her swallow hard, watched her pull away, reluctance in the slow movement of her hand. He lowered his arm.

“I just had to know,” she said, softly, “that you were all right.” She cleared her throat, voice strengthening. “Back to work, soldier.” He might have believed she was perfectly all right if only her voice hadn’t sounded so strained—if her gaze hadn’t dropped to his boots one moment too late to hide the fact that she had tears in her eyes.

“In a moment,” he said, uncertainty still tightening in his chest. He reached for her, fingers brushing against the shoulder of her jacket. She glanced up, blinking quickly, but there were more tears, now, and he knew he couldn’t leave things quite like this—so unresolved, so complicated.

So he hugged her, arms loose around her shoulders.

“You were right,” he said. “I’m weak.”

“No.” Her voice wavered as she squeezed him tightly in return. “I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

The last thing Marlowe wanted to discuss was the impossibility of defining strength and weakness in the Survey Corps, but Hitch’s intention was clear; this was some kind of an apology. He acknowledged it as offhandedly as she’d given it, squeezing her tightly in return.

She continued, words muffled against his neck, “I’m glad for it, though. I’ve never wanted to be wrong about anything more in my entire life.”

He buried his nose in her hair, pulling her closer. She smelled the same as always—warm and soft and clean, and for a long while he forgot about how dirty he was and where they were and how things had gotten so complicated between them in the first place. Instead, all he could think about was that he didn’t particularly want to let go.

But then there was the sound of a bugle and he had to take his horse’s reins back, had to put his foot in the stirrup to swing back up into the saddle—had to get on with his life and she with hers. He had a thousand things to say: that she should stay in the Military Police, that he was wrong for having said she wasn’t who he thought she was, that she shouldn’t worry about him.

But there wasn’t time to say it all, and so he asked, voice tinged with urgency as the other recruits joined the formation without him, “May I write to you?”

She smiled and nodded and said, swiping at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, “Only if you’ll let me write back.”


End file.
